We are fifty yards from the mouth.
Twenty.
Ten.
At five, fatigue sets in, swallowing me and gashing my skin with its sharp, aching teeth.
I summon one final burst of mother-pulling-a-car-off-her-babies strength, and yank.
We’re there.
Nothing sparkles, there’s no WELCOME HOME mat rolled out, no end-of-the-level music that says, “Congrats! You won.”
No.
The princess is in another castle.
But goddammit, we are in THIS one.
The cave isn’t huge, but it’s big enough; and the outside opens wide then just kind of carves back into the mountain. I don’t think it exactly tunnels in, but it’s big enough to provide some kind of shelter from the wind, the snowflakes falling from the black sky.
I leave Jonah lying by the entrance and realize how hard I’m shaking when I go for the bag. I miss the zipper once, twice, close my finger and thumb on it the third go-round.
Jonah stirs and groans and I say, “It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
There’s a little indent in the rock, a shallow scoop, and the ceiling above it is black. We are not the first ones to shelter here, and we won’t be the last.
Something about that is comforting. Unifying or something—which I just . . . desperately need right now. To be connected to humanity.
At this frostbitten, terrible second, I feel so utterly, wholly alone.
“Fuck,” Jonah whispers. His teeth are chattering. “I have—I have—t-to get. These . . .” He sucks in a breath; his words are hoarse and desperate and shallow.
I slide a quick look over to him and say, “Just hold on. Hold on.”
I run out of the cave and gather some nearby pine needles in my fists, scooping them in my shirt, then pour them on the ground. But . . . shit. Shit, there’s no lighter, not one that’s not empty.
GODDAMMIT. We’re going to die out here. For no reason, we’re going to freeze.
“H—Hallie. I just—”
Wait. I know this. I know how to do this! My cousins taught me, oh my god.
I yank my cellphone out of my pocket, because for some reason I’m still instinctively keeping it there, and pull out the battery. Then I shove a stick of gum in my mouth and hold the battery to the foil wrapper—rest in peace, you currently useless piece of technology.
I wait, Jonah chattering and crawling inside the cave.
I’m so focused I barely hear him.
I’m just . . . waiting.
Then it ignites.
Oh god, it ignites.
I could cry.
I think I’m kind of already crying.
I hold the little orange flame to the pine needles and they go up. YES. FUCK YES.
“HALLIE.” I can hear the yell in his tone even though it’s barely hissed.
“Jonah—”
“Get”—a gasp—“me out”—another sharp intake of air. He squeezes his eyes shut, lips blue. “Of these clothes.”
“Oh shit. Shit I’m so sorry, I was focused on—” Even with the dim register in his eyes, I can see the flash of frustration. I cut myself off and strip his freezing, soaked shirt off his head and then his boots, his socks, his pants, his boxers. I’m in total EMT mode.
He’s a patient and I’m taking care of him and he will survive this night.
He will survive it.
I can’t even feel the cold on my own skin—not now. It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.
I leave him there by the little fire and busy myself gathering kindling—aspen leaves and sticks and more pine needles and armfuls of things that will keep this going through the night.
I form a pile near the back of the cave and shove more kindling on the little fire so that it grows.
So that in a few minutes, we can actually feel warmth.
Tears sting my eyes again; I’m so relieved I can feel myself shaking.
This fire means that maybe, maybe it’s okay. Maybe we are going to make it.
Maybe Jonah isn’t going to freeze to death because a rogue moose basically shoved him into a river.
Maybe it’s the comedown from all the adrenaline, maybe it’s that I’m starving, maybe dehydrated, maybe the cold. And maybe it’s because a rogue moose attack is just . . . fucking funny. But I start laughing.
Hysterically.
It is only when I turn to look at Jonah and see him shivering, hands around his knees, rich golden brown color back, that I realize he’s naked.
My own laughter is cut off by my throat closing up.
He blows out a breath; he’s not even looking at me. He’s staring at the fire.
And I’m just absolutely pervily staring at him.
Of course I am. The adrenaline from the chase is still coursing through me at mach speed and there’s this whole AFFIRM LIFE instinct pummeling my brain and god he’s sexy as hell apart from all that.
Who am I kidding? Like I wouldn’t take a look at the shadows playing over his musculature, the cut of his arms and the V leading down past his hips to a piece of him that rests in the dark, his arms looped around his knees . . . like I wouldn’t look at that, look at him, under normal, regular circumstances, and feel my mouth go dry.
Like I didn’t do that at the bonfire what must have been months ago but I guess was a lot less than that. Jesus, it feels like it’s been an eternity. Like we never lived off this mountain. But four days ago, I wanted him up against a tree.
And now, a nightmare and a half later, I want him up against a cave wall.
I’m hungry and exhausted and cold and so calorie deprived I don’t know how my brain can function beyond it. But I’m singlehandedly debunking Maslow’s hierarchy of needs—all I can think is, “Touch me. Touch me. Please touch me. I’m so glad I’ve been brushing my teeth every day.”
I clear my throat, and Jonah glances up at me as I move toward the center of the cave and carefully begin laying his clothes out by the fire.
I empty his bag. There’s not much in here, not much that a fire could help anyway. An empty lighter, some gloves, which I lay out. A beanie he should probably have been wearing already. It goes with everything else. Oh hey, some spent boxes of granola and jerky (because even dying up here in the Rockies, I guess neither of us can get past the instinct not to litter?). Those, we can burn.
A baggie of weed, which I smirk at. Thankfully, it’s alright. Good ol’ waterproof Ziplocs.
“Hallie,” he says. His voice is hoarse and quiet.
“Mmhmm.” I can’t look at him. God, I’m dying to look at him.
“Look at me.”
I bite down on my tongue. I’m shaking, I guess.
I look at him.
“How you doing?”
My eyebrows hit my hairline. “How am I doing? How are you doing?” My voice squeaks, which is kind of embarrassing, but we just survived like fourteen deadly things and this absolutely stupid hot boy is naked under my blanket in front of the fire and it might be our last night on Earth and how dare he even ask me how I’m doing when maybe he’s about to die of hypothermia?
I blow out a breath.
He laughs and says, “I’m fine.”
His voice still isn’t even approaching full force; it’s still quiet and broken by the cold.
I say, “No you’re not.”
He shrugs and shudders.